


Just a Little Longer

by thedisturberofthepeace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisturberofthepeace/pseuds/thedisturberofthepeace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the three year anniversary of the fall, Sherlock is having trouble finishing the job he started. A little homesick and a little lonely, he finds his way to the pavement below 221b. And if he has a smoke while he's there, well, what John doesn't know won't kill him and the patches just aren't enough to help him breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Little Longer

Not yet.

A harsh inhale.

A familiar burn of invasive vapors rasping against the walls of his throat.

It had been years since he experienced the physicality of truly losing himself in the burn, in the ash, in the smoke.

It’s been three years since he had breathed, really breathed. For three years now he had only been inhaling. He only did the bare minimum to keep his body alive now. He didn’t want anything more, he didn’t deserve anything more.

But today is different.

Today he needs to breathe.

He draws the cigarette from his dry, chapped lips and taps his thumb weakly on the end; tired eyes watch as the flakes of burning ash fall from the butt like leaves from a tree.

The smoldering papers cool quickly as they race languidly to the cement waiting below.

It is a disturbingly familiar scenario.

An object of danger and addiction set alight and sent over the edge, its flames suffocated in the fall.

Since then, he lived day to day for three years attempting to live without the light that he himself had managed to put out. He felt like a madman; homeless man without a blanket. He’s cold. He’s tired. And he needs to breathe.

His hand lifts as he sucks another breath through the tightly rolled cylinder.

The cigarette drops from his shaking fingers to join its ashes. He glares, then twists his toe, grinding the offending object into the pavement. He huffs irritably and gazes up at the second floor of the building he stands under. There’s a glow still emanating from the curtain drawn window, though the rest of the street is bathed in darkness.

It’s too early.

In an instant, he pivots on his heel and strides away soundlessly, head shaking throughout the exchange.

He’s starting to breathe again, and the oxygen has sparked a meager flame. For now that is enough. For now, he can sustain himself a bit longer to finish what he started before all the pain and suffering is reduced to naught.

Just a little longer.


End file.
